He had been at one time a driver on a horse-car in New York, but had managed to find his way from the busy hum of the city to quiet Rossville, where he was just in time for an employment similar to the one he had given up.
One day, early in November, a young man of slight figure, apparently not far from twenty-five years of age, descended from the cars at the Wellington station and, crossing the track, passed through the small station-house to the rear platform.
"Can you tell me," he inquired of a bystander, "whether there is any conveyance between this place and Rossville ?" "Yes, sir," was the reply.

"That's the regular carriage, and here's the driver.

Ajax, here's a passenger for you." "I have a trunk on the other side," said the young man, addressing the driver.

"If you wild go round with me, we will bring it here." "All right, sir," said Ajax, in a businesslike way.
The trunk was brought round and placed on the rack behind the wagon.
It was a large black trunk, securely bound with brass bands, and showed marks of service, as if it had been considerably used.

Two small strips of paper pasted on the side bore the custom-house marks of Havre and Liverpool.